


Badelunda

by blacklid



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-17
Updated: 2008-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-26 05:22:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacklid/pseuds/blacklid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Timing is everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Badelunda

**Author's Note:**

> Coda for 3.16, _No Rest For The Wicked_

The sky is a darkening gray, an impending gray turning everything that is alive green, saturated and vibrant. All the vivid colors and sharp outlines are making the backs of his eyes ache.

He has a deep bruise on his left shoulder blade that he doesn't remember getting.

There is a deep scrape across the knuckles of his left hand, burns along the edge of his pinky: puffy, bright red, painless.

It is too warm where he is, but he makes no move to step back, to inch away from the flames that lick up from the embers and high into the sky. He'd rather walk into them.

He should have waited. Now, after all this time. Waiting and waiting for something, some solution, some clue, some rescue, to show itself, and now he hasn't waited long enough.

The front of his jeans and his shirt stiffen and grow taut across his skin, orange heat sucking the moisture from his flesh, from his clothes, from his face. Every tear that escapes and courses down his cheek flatlines and dries in the chapped kiss of his lips.

The thumb of his right hand fidgets with the trap of the lighter. Open. Closed. Open Closed. Flame. Nothing. He holds it open and burns the tip of his finger, wonders if he could really stand it. He blinks and grinds his jaw, wants to pulverize his teeth, wither the flames with the heat he feels clawing from the backs of his eyes, wonders how _he_ could survive it. Open. Closed. Open.

He hears the thunder overhead, attributes it to the pounding of his heart, inside his head, the echo of his legs trembling to hold him still, the consuming howl of the flames. But not rain. Not now. He waited too long, and now he hasn't waited long enough. Closed. Open. Closed. ... Open.

Please, let it finish.

The flame from the lighter catches the sleeve of his jacket, sucks itself into his shirt when the wind kicks up and blows him forward, towards the pyre, towards the form: salted and shrouded and white. Into the end, or the beginning, or both. Then the rain pelts his back, drenches his clothes, covers him in a single baptism, outing the heat growing through him. Cold now, blisters forming under his clothes. Water soaks him, holding him back as his brother keeps leaving, impervious fingers of flame taking him away.

Closed.

Open.

.  
.  
.

Closed.


End file.
